


Cane

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dom/sub, Dominance, Ficlet, M/M, Object Insertion, Power Play, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 10:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3892150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil can’t own Elrond’s pet permanently, but he can leave his mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cane

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Thranduil using his staff to fuck someone. Not picky who, just make them whimper and beg as Thranduil doms the hell out of them” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25915138#t25915138). (Fair warning that, while I personally adore Elrond, Thranduil’s a snotty brat to him here.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He never has to ask anymore. After he’s given his proper dues—a welcome ceremony and a fitful feast—he’s shown to his rooms by Elrond’s personal assistant, and that assistant knows to stay. On the rare occasion when he’s followed his own lord back and left Thranduil in the hands of another, Thranduil sends Feren or Tauriel to wait in a strategic location and make sure that the moment Lindir is free, he attends to his most honoured guest. 

Tonight is one of those nights where he’s had to wait, and he hasn’t been particularly pleased with it. He has his own servants, of course, but what is the point of staying in Elrond’s home if not to avail himself of those foreign delicacies? And there is always the thrill of _claiming_ something that belongs to another man. Elrond would never admit to being petty enough to stealing his attendant away just to rob Thranduil of the chance, but surely Elrond must know what happens when Thranduil comes to visit him. As much as Thranduil can make the young servant _his_ for the span of a night, he has no illusion that Lindir is more in Thranduil’s claws than his own master’s. If Elrond were to use Thranduil’s servants in such a way, Thranduil would certainly know of it and use the information. 

Elrond, thus far, has not. And Lindir returns, just as he always does, sweeping into Thranduil’s grand guest chambers with his head bowed. He says quietly, “I apologize for the delay, my lord,” and Thranduil finds himself too acutely aware of just how different the _my lord_ sounds when addressed to Elrond. To Thranduil, it’s still reverent, but it isn’t worshipful. It’s attracted, but not adoring. Some day, Thranduil may wish to change that. 

For now, he’s patient, and he merely gestures to the bed, inviting, “Come.” He offers no reassurance that the delay is acceptable. Lindir comes forward all the same, swiftly pacing the polished floor while Tauriel shuts the doors behind him, guarding them from the outside. (No threat has ever visited Thranduil here, but it pays to be cautious, and he should like someone there to stop Legolas from accidentally wondering in on things not meant for his eyes.)

At the edge of the bed, Lindir falls gracefully to his knees, sitting at Thranduil’s feet. He would kiss them, if Thranduil bid; but first comes the inspection. Thranduil accepts that Lindir belongs to another, but he has no interest to bed an elf that smells like another man. He leans forward, and Lindir keeps his gaze respectfully lowered. He smells clean, fresh; he was wise enough to bathe between. 

Thranduil pats the white sheets in acceptance, asking, as he does every time, “Have you changed your mind?” Lindir merely shakes his head, as he also does every time. He made it clear from the first time that he would have no one but his lord Elrond inside him, save for his mouth, and thus far, that hasn’t changed. The only thing that has is that he will now accept kisses on the mouth, where once he would turn away. To test it anew, Thranduil curls one finger beneath Lindir’s chin before he rises, tilting him up to brush their lips together. Lindir hardly moves through it, but Thranduil is experienced enough to see the sliver of lust snake into his eyes. He enjoys these sessions more than he lets on, Thranduil believes. If he doesn’t, it’s curious of him to continue coming back. 

Perhaps he wants to make his own lord jealous. Perhaps he hopes to goad Elrond into publicly claiming him, perhaps even marrying him. A foolish notion. Elrond might be softer than Thranduil, but surely he would never lower himself to wed a servant. Still, Thranduil thinks that if he were in that servant’s shoes, he might try to maneuver such an arrangement. 

But he isn’t, and Lindir is nothing like him. It’s unlikely that Lindir has any ill motives at all, and more so that he simply enjoys his job of serving his master’s guests. As he climbs to his feet, he’s already slipping his sleeveless cloak from his shoulders, and then his long fingers are reaching for the high neckline of his robes. One by one, he unthreads crosshatched ties, drawing the dark fabric steadily more open. Each patch of skin he reveals is pale and hairless, but tantalizing nonetheless. He’s creamy, lithe, unblemished and beautiful. He still boasts the tightness of youth. He lets the long robes slither down from his body, wearing nothing beneath: he knew his purpose. He stands naked before Thranduil, eyes still averted, and then, almost as an afterthought, removes the silver circlet around his forehead. 

This, he turns to place on a counter, which prompts him to gather his robes, fold them, and do the same. It gives Thranduil a chance to admire his luscious form from all angles, every last curve exposed. 

Lindir turns when he’s finished. Thranduil crooks one finger, and Lindir obediently steps forward. His cock is not entirely flaccid, as it so rarely is when in Thranduil’s presence. It’s obvious that Lindir finds him incredibly attractive in return, and he’s always suspected that the reason Lindir so often averts his gaze is not out of respect for Thranduil’s station, but an effort at self-control. 

Thranduil takes one of his thin wrists and guides him to the bed. As Lindir climbs on, Thranduil lets his hand run down the curve of Lindir’s spine, over the round hump of his plush rear, and down his ripe thighs. When Thranduil runs back up, he presses down at Lindir’s tailbone, and Lindir compliantly flattens against the mattress. Thranduil continues to enjoy the cheeks of his ass, particularly down the middle. 

Finding Lindir’s tight hole and rubbing his middle finger along the puckered brim, Thranduil muses, “You will not have me inside you, perhaps, but what of objects?”

Lindir lifts his head off the mattress to glance over his shoulder. His dark brows knit together in puzzlement: clearly, he has never thought of such a thing. It amuses Thranduil to think Elrond such a bland lover. Thranduil himself enjoys many thrilling variations on the typical sexual encounter, though he’s yet to use any on the tamer elves of Rivendell. Stroking, licking, sucking... that’s served him well enough with Lindir to a point, but part of this trip’s appeal was to indulge in new technique. (Which he already tested on Feren, who, unlike Lindir, is his to break, and seemed to rather enjoy the treatment.)

Slowly, Lindir asks, “Which object, my lord?” 

Thranduil doesn’t answer, merely glances at the staff leaning against the wall by the headboard. It’s a straight rod of twisted wood, blunted and wrapped in silver trimming around the broader handle, a bulbous sphere at the tip. Lindir follows his gaze, then pales. 

Lindir’s quiet for a moment, during which Thranduil produces a small vial of oil from his robes. As Lindir has yet to allow entrance to himself and Thranduil reserves that honour for only a select few, there hasn’t been a need for lubrication thus far. For this, Thranduil came prepared. He lays the thin cylinder along Lindir’s crack before he climbs off the bed, strolling casually around to reach for his staff. 

He isn’t surprised when Lindir tentatively reaches for the bottle. He thumbs the cork open, but looks at Thranduil before he pours any into his hand. Thranduil lifts an eyebrow, and Lindir lifts his hip slightly off the mattress. Understanding, Thranduil ordains, “You may take whatever position you wish to prepare yourself.”

Lindir, to Thranduil’s silent delight, rolls instantly onto his back. He shuffles to center himself in the mattress again, and then he lifts his legs, bent at the knees, feet in the air as he slicks the fingers of one hand and reaches down his own body. His cock is now stiff enough to lift off his stomach, though not as erect as it will be once Thranduil joins. Thranduil comes to sit at the foot of the bed again, so he can admire the view of the slender shaft, hairless base and tight, pink balls. Lindir’s ass is similarly pale to his cock; evidently, his cheeks aren’t slapped enough. Thranduil’s tenderized them plenty on more than one occasion, but tonight it’s the tight hole in the center he concentrates on. He watches Lindir’s clear fingernail push at his own entrance, swirling a few times before popping inside. The furrowed entrance seems to suck him in, and with the squelch of lavender oil, more and more of that long finger disappears inside. Lindir’s face scrunches up, his eyes closing and his lips parting. It makes Thranduil wonder why he hasn’t done this before. Surely, if he had Lindir wait, stretched and open around his own fingers, kneeling at Thranduil’s feet, Thranduil could have him begging to be entered sooner or later. It’s clear on his face that he finds some pleasure in the act, and it’s always obvious that he finds pleasure in serving Thranduil. Combined, Thranduil could make him _very_ happy.

But that time has yet to come, so Thranduil simply watches Lindir prepare himself with slow but graceful fingers. Elrond must be a very patient lover. Thranduil’s never been a fan of extraneous preparation, other than for the purpose of teasing a submissive partner into desperation. He often takes his own elves fast, roughly, savouring the burn, but he knows that not all elves are as thrilling as those of the Woods, and he allows the gradual ministrations. 

Finally, when Lindir has speared himself on three fingers and drenched his hole in oil, he withdraws his hands. He brings his wet fingers up to his chest, wiping them across his nipples, which Thranduil observes without comment. Finished and breathing noticeably harder than before, Lindir asks, “How would you have me, my lord?”

In the Greenwood, impaled on Thranduil’s cock, along the dais just below his throne. Perhaps in the throne itself, if Lindir could be trusted to do all the work and ride Thranduil gracefully, while Thranduil elegantly leant back in his splendor. But that’s no option here, so Thranduil arbitrarily decides, “This will do.”

Thranduil stands. As soon as his weight’s left the bed, a quick shiver runs through Lindir’s body, almost too fast to be seen. Anticipation, no doubt. He tries to look at Thranduil with a blankly wanton look, but the mingled fright and desire is clear beneath it. Thranduil takes his staff in hand, wielding it like a spear. He lowers it first to rest flush against Lindir’s bottom. Lindir’s rear winces at the hard surface but otherwise remains pliant for him. The rounded end is a good size to replicate a cock, though of course stiffer and in no way forgiving. He draws the globe-like tip of it along Lindir’s open, shuddering hole, then pauses, changing his mind to order, “On second thought, I would have you on your knees, like a dog.”

Lindir makes no objection. He rolls obediently over, pushing up onto his hands and knees, then quickly lowering his face back to the pillows. It’s only a small miscalculation, but it betrays his emotions, caught up enough to falter. Readjusting, he lifts his ass into the air as high as he can, spreading his legs open so that his cock swings lewdly between them. 

This gives Thranduil a good angle to rub his staff between Lindir’s cheeks, pressing down. Soft and round, they part for him, squeezed around the thick wood, and Thranduil dryly thrusts between them several times, just to give the skin a bit of colour. When Lindir’s ass is sufficiently pink from the rough treatment, Thranduil runs the tip back down to tap at Lindir’s hole. 

Lindir’s breath hitches, and Thranduil thrusts inside. It’s only the head at first, but Lindir cries out all the same, quickly shoving his face into the pillows to muffle the sound. Holding the staff that same increment inside, Thranduil bends to twist his fingers in a chunk of Lindir’s long, chestnut hair, and yanks it back. Lindir’s neck arches, his head pulled from the bed, and Thranduil coolly orders, “Do not hide your screams from me.”

Eyes almost closed and cheeks flushed, Lindir subservient mumbles, “Yes, my lord.” When Thranduil lets his hair go, he lays his face sideways in the pillow, sure to keep his mouth exposed. Thranduil twists the staff enough to make Lindir hiss, and then he’s pushing deeper. He can feel the oil creating give, like he can feel the natural resistance of Lindir’s channel. But he prepared himself well, and with a bit of force—always careful never to do any real damage—Thranduil manages to keep it gradually pushing inside. He can only imagine what it feels like, gnarled and uneven and hard as it is, as Feren was too busy weeping and whimpering to describe it, and Lindir doesn’t seem much more in the mood for coherent words. His thighs have gone very tense, his throat releasing one gasp after another, and Thranduil pays attention to his breathing, using the brief pockets of muscle relaxation accordingly.

There’s a bulge at the end of the handle, similar to the one at the tip, like an orb embedded in the wood. By the time it reaches Lindir’s rear, Thranduil know he’s already pushed Lindir to the edge of his limits. But Thranduil presses the silver knob further in until it’s tight against Lindir’s twitching hole all the same, unable to go any further. Lindir’s entrance seems to throb around it, fluctuating rapidly as he adjusts to his load. His breathing has become very heavy, his face red. He looks quite attractive, skewered on the end of Thranduil’s stick, but of course, most everyone looks better at Thranduil’s figurative feet. There have even been times when he’s found pleasure in forcing Legolas’ head to bow, although this is a different sort of allure. He twists the staff experimentally, and Lindir whimpers. 

Then Thranduil draws it out, gives Lindir a beat to breath, and shoves it back inside. Lindir screams immediately, his fingers fisting in the sheets. It rings loud in clear, spurring Thranduil on to repeat the movement, sliding out only to slide back in, this time twisting, adjusting the angle, driving hard inside four times before Lindir’s shriek hitches, warped around pleasure, and Thranduil knows he’s found the perfect spot. He varies his thrusts after, striking it on every second blow. Now that Lindir’s been bid to scream, he can’t seem to stop. He’s loud, deliciously so, his voice beautiful in the height of desire, ricocheting off the carved walls. Thranduil watches his pinched face and his trembling thighs, but mostly his abused hole, coating the staff in oil each time it draws out. It’s clear that Lindir’s channel is getting quite the workout. 

It doesn’t take long for Lindir’s quivering to spread beyond his thighs. He has an awkward time of squirming, impaled as he is, held up with his ass on display, but he still tries. Soon enough, he’s shaking all over, and then he suddenly pushes back onto the staff as it takes him, screaming himself hoarse but moving all the same. Thranduil, smirking in amusement, slows his ministrations. Lindir does the rest of the work on his own, shoving his ass back down Thranduil’s staff without any guidance. Clearly, he enjoys being taken more than he lets on. He rides the makeshift cock with a lustful desperation, vigorously fucking himself all the harder. 

Thranduil allows this for a long, lovely stretch before he jabs the staff suddenly forward again. Lindir lets out a piercing cry, and his trembling legs give out; in trying to hump the staff, he loses balance of one knee and topples to the side. Quick reflexes have Thranduil moving with it, adjusting the staff as Lindir hits the mattress. His face is now entirely red, right up to the tips of his ears, and he looks back at Thranduil, hazy and embarrassed. He’s grown slightly sweat-slicked, and he licks his lips before panting, “I... I apologize, my lord...”

Shaking, he tries to push back up, but Thranduil holds his ass down by keeping the staff where it is and ordering sharply, “Stay.”

Lindir gives up all attempts to rise. Thranduil simply resumes the thrusts, with his own force again instead of Lindir’s, fucking him steadily and eyeing the new view. Lindir arches the deeper he’s taken, Chest thrusting out and knees curling back, his arms lifted enough to expose his taut front and perked, rosy nipples. His cock, completely hard, now rests on his thigh, but he knows better than to touch himself without permission, knows better than to even try to squeeze his legs around it. But none of that stops him from squirming again. He tries to thrust back but doesn’t have enough leverage, and instead merely whimpers in failed attempts. 

Now that Thranduil has Lindir’s front and a better look at his pretty face, Thranduil shifts back onto the bed, adjusting his grip on the staff so he can keep up his pace and angle. He doesn’t bother to touch Lindir—that part will come later, when Lindir isn’t wracked with tremors and continually bounced up and down in the sheets. The only thing his other hand does is occasionally rearrange Lindir’s long hair, simply to make the scene more artful. Once, Lindir slides his hand between Thranduil’s legs, lifting it hesitantly as though to caress the bulge in Thranduil’s robes, but Thranduil shakes his head, and Lindir withdraws. He returns to his own mewls, until his voice breaks, and he begs, “My lord—King _Thranduil_ — _please_.”

He so rarely uses Thranduil’s name. The sound of it pleases Thranduil, particularly so strained as it is, because it proves that Lindir isn’t thinking of his usual master; tonight, he belongs solely to _Thranduil_. He licks his lips, and on another well-aimed thrust, moans, “Please, please, _ahh_...”

“Do you wish to have me inside you?” Thranduil asks, voice impressively controlled. Lindir chews his bottom lip and knits his eyes brows together, distressed and at the edge. But he shakes his head, and Thranduil lowers enough for his white-blond hair to brush along Lindir’s shoulder. “Then what is it you plead for?”

Lindir opens his mouth, but he can’t seem to say it. Thranduil knows—he must want to be touched, or to be allowed to touch himself. But he can’t seem to form the words, and so Thranduil’s smirk increases, and he orders, “Lie on your back.” He stills the staff just long enough for Lindir to comply. 

Lindir rolls over, facing up, legs spread in the air again, having to lift over Thranduil’s arm. His cock juts off his stomach, the head crowning through the foreskin and beaded with a drop of white liquid. Thranduil eyes him up and down: all the places worthy of stroking, licking, kissing. Perhaps, once Thranduil has finished his own games, he will have Tauriel fetch one of his own servants to come and play with Lindir. (Feren would enjoy it, although it might be amusing to watch Lindir suck off old Galion.) He could even invite Elrond to watch such a show, although the boring figurehead wouldn’t likely attend. 

First, Thranduil has this experiment to finish. He waits for Lindir to whine in need, vulnerable and scrumptious, and then he resumes his rapid thrusts of the staff. Lindir mewls happily when he’s fucked again, arching off the bed, and soon his trembling and begging having returned, his sex-stripped voice moaning, “King Thranduil, please... have mercy, _ah_ , I beg you... please...”

“If I cannot have your rear, then you will not have my hand,” Thranduil drawls simply. Lindir lets out an agonized whine, and Thranduil chuckles, “Though by all means, continue to beg me.”

Lindir does. He whimpers and writhes and looks up at Lindir with half-lidded, dilated eyes, bite-swollen lips and flushed cheeks, fingers cutely curled into his palms at his sides, arms lying useless against the sheets. He’s helpless, completely in Thranduil’s control, and Thranduil revels in that utter submission as much as he does the erotic sight and sounds. He shows no mercy, fucking Lindir only harder and brutally, until Lindir arches up and _screams_ at the top of his lungs. His cock bursts, splattering his chest so hard that the spray reaches up to his chin, and Thranduil pulls the staff closer, buried to the hilt, twisting it inside Lindir’s ass and forcing Lindir’s body to scrunch all the tighter. He milks out Lindir’s orgasm, one jet after another, until there’s nothing left. 

He lingers a few seconds, just in case, then pulls his staff from Lindir’s convulsing hole. It dribbles a trail of heated oil behind it, spilling down into the sheets. Fortunately, it’s not Thranduil’s responsibility to clean them. 

He wipes the hilt of his staff off on Lindir’s thigh, then leans it back against the wall, where he’ll have one of his own attendants clean it. Lindir has gone slack in the bed, looking limp and satiated. 

His job is not to satiate himself. Thranduil asks, one last time, “Has your policy changed?”

Lindir takes several seconds to draw in breath. His chest is rapidly rising and falling; clearly, it was a very powerful orgasm. But he still replies, quietly and carefully, “You are very beautiful and talented, my king. ...But I remain my Lord Elrond’s.”

Thranduil feels the familiar spark of irritation, though he isn’t surprised.

Having had enough of his own games, Thranduil grabs Lindir by the hair, tugging him back up to hands and knees. Lindir winces at the harsh treatment but lets himself be dragged and tossed over the edge of the bed. Slipping onto the floor, he settles on his knees. 

Thranduil, spreading his legs to give Lindir access, finally parts his robes, and shoves his waiting cock into Lindir’s pliant mouth, already pondering his next twist.


End file.
